


Found in Storage

by ridiculouslyhappy



Series: Night Shift Can't Get Any Worse Than This! Archive [3]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: (actually- EVERYONE's potty mouth), Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Gen, Mike Schmidt's potty mouth, Night Shift Can't Get Any Worse Than This! AU, Not Canon Compliant, Phone Guy is also Scott, William Afton is also Dave Skeeter Miller, fazbear boys are big stressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25029817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridiculouslyhappy/pseuds/ridiculouslyhappy
Summary: While cleaning out the Freddy Fazbear establishment in preparation for their final month, Mike makes a disturbing discovery.
Series: Night Shift Can't Get Any Worse Than This! Archive [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812565
Kudos: 32





	Found in Storage

**Author's Note:**

> December 1999. Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, LOCATION A, is scheduled to be closed for remodeling. Employees prepare to move things out. 
> 
> This file, originally uploaded in 2018, had since been edited by our staff and added back into the system :)

“Aw, fuck me!” 

Mike Schmidt, in an attempt to hold way more boxes than his arms permitted, scowled when a small box at the top of his stack went tumbling to the ground. Of course, everything in it went scattering about, screws rolling away and everything. 

He had tried to cut corners the same way Management did by asking him to spend his Saturday cleaning backroom boxes in exchange for twenty-five additional dollars, and look where it got him.

If he had to be entirely honest, too, Mike didn’t even want to be here in the first place. Twenty-five wasn’t enough for the slave labor that Management was going to subject them to, and he had other shit to spend his Saturday doing.

He was originally going to say no and politely tell him to piss off, but his employment was threatened before he got either of those options, so here he was.

Mike’s frown deepened when Phone Guy came walking over, clipboard in hand. Of _course_ he had the stupid clipboard in hand, never bothering to actually look up while having a conversation like a socially inclined individual.

“Watch your language.”

“Unless you’ve hired more barely legal children, if kids aren’t here I’ll say whatever I damn well please. This ain’t even a business day.”

He steamrolled over his complaint. ”How hard is it to just make two separate trips instead of dirtying up the floor?”

Mike shot him a look. “I’m getting paid twenty-five dollars. I’m doing twenty-five dollars worth of fucking work.”

Scott rolled his eyes, marking something on his clipboard (probably a note to dock his pay, as usual). He looked around, potentially spotting another underpaid victim to go and harass. 

“Just don’t break anything else.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

He mumbled something especially unkind as the man walked away. He doesn’t doubt that he heard him.

Mike gave the box on the floor an especially hard kick, bothering to only pick up what had fallen in its general vicinity. He balanced the remaining two boxes on his hips instead. 

He tossed the boxes onto the stage, sneaking a glance at the animatronic bear that towered over him. The Fazband had been inactive since last week, getting ready to be locked away until further notice.

“Man.” Mike looked to Freddy, even knowing that he wouldn’t get a reply. “I’m glad you fucks are gonna be outta my hair.”

The noir rolled up his sleeves, ready to get his hands dirty in old Fazbear shit.

Ten minutes in, and the most exciting thing he had found this found thus far was the fortune tellers you’d make at sleepovers. He didn’t say he kept it for himself, but, well, he was gonna have fun with that later.

Another item of note had been some spring cover in…gunk. Maybe? Mike suppressed a shudder, mouth screwing in disgust when the grim got under his fingernails. Maybe he’d scrub his hands in scalding hot bleach during his break.

The rest of the box turned out to be, unfortunately, scrap metal, most of which was toeing the lines of “safety hazard” about fourteen pieces ago. Probably should get a tetanus shot after this, too.

He huffed, tossing the marker somewhere to the side of him after scrawling the words _TOSS OUT_ on top of the cardboard lid. Yeah, so, he may have done a halfway job at sorting through the box, but if all of them were just going to be as disappointing and uneventful as this one, then he'd rather get done with this as soon as possible. If he was going to be wasting his day doing this, couldn't something _interesting_ at least happen?

The black permanent marker, which had skid somewhere across the stage when he threw it earlier, plucked him in the side of his head. He hissed, rubbing his head when he looked up at the source of the thrower. 

Gray, the maintenance guy, threw down a toolbox onto the show stage, a shit eating smirk plastered to his face.

Mike dusted his hands on his slacks, sending a glare. 

“Ring ring, security guard,” he sang, taking a screwdriver from the box. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be minding your own damn business?”

Gray gave a short laugh. “Touché.” He riffled through more tools in the box, coming up with a small plastic container. “So, what brings you to these parts?”

“Lifting metal and shit for some pocket change. Y’know.”

He knelt next to the animatronic, unscrewing screws between floorboards. “That’s literally my fucking job. Of course I know.”

“Oh yeah.” Mike tilted his head back, eyebrows momentarily raised. “I’m so used to seeing you mopping floors I forgot that’s not even what they hired you for.”

Out from one of his many pockets came a roll of duct tape. “Oh, speaking of which, I saw that mess you left for me on the floor. You better sweep that shit up.”

“I ain’t sweeping shit. It ain’t my job.”

Gray made a noise that sounded angry, but judging from the expression on his face, it looked like he wasn’t surprised. 

“Fine then. Be that way. Enjoy your lockjaw.”

“The fuck is that?”

“Tetanus, you dumbass. The last guy who cleaned those boxes got cut and contracted sepsis or some shit. I’d watch my ass if I were you.”

Mike rolled his eyes, look bordering between disinterest and boredom. “Classic Fazfuck’s. Don’t jinx me.” 

When Gray took longer than seven seconds to reply, Mike turned just in time to see him hit _PLAY_ on his Walkman, bobbing his head and obnoxiously mouthing the lyrics to whatever song was blaring at full volume.

Taking that as a sign to stop delaying the inevitable, Mike pushed himself up from the stage, eyes focusing on the label of the unopened box that read _DO NOT TOUCH_.

He raised an eyebrow. “Little late for that, buddy. Should’ve got your shit earlier.”

His hand was barely hovering over the box before _it_ hit him like a bus. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but there was a feeling in his stomach that left him tipping over on his feet.

It disappeared with an exhale, though, and Mike blinked back the sweat that threatened to drip into his eyes. He shook his head, brushing it off as the summer heat finally get to him. 

He was all in favor of ditching the long sleeves since the AC was off, but he didn’t feel like dealing with the dress code fine that his paycheck couldn’t afford. Even when there was no one to impress did Mange want his staff to look “professional,” even if it left them with severe dehydration and risk of a heat stroke because it's ninety-two fucking degrees outside.

Mike coughed when opening the box gave him a mouthful of mildew smell and a cloud of dust. He cleared his throat, hoping he didn’t just contract two decade old tuberculosis. 

He rummaged through the first layer of clutter with a reasonable speed in mind, just in case. Obviously, what Gray said _definitely_ wasn’t getting to him. Just…nothing wrong with being careful, right?

While he was looking to get this done as quickly as possible, he figured he might as well screw around and entertain himself. His definition of “entertaining” himself (at least, as much as he could on the job) consisted of sifting though old children’s drawings.

Most of them were dated from the eighties, dates smudged or just flat out illegible. It was a little surreal to see that the Fazband looked basically the damn same, with the exception of Foxy still being in commission. Despite hating the machines themselves, the innocence depicted in the drawings made him smile a bit, but he’d never admit that.

He threw the papers into the stack. The lid of the cardboard box was just barely open, a glint peaking out from the crack.

Mike opened the box fully, and that head spinning feeling came back again. He stopped himself from going completely boneless by using the stage for support, hoping that Gray was too wrapped up in his trashy music to notice his little attack.

From the corner of his eye, he chanced a glance into the box again, despite his head still swimming a one hundred meter for the Olympic gold. 

There was a shirt. It was obviously one of their cheaply issued uniform shirts, he could tell that by fabric alone. There was a name tag laying on the neatly folded top, but he couldn't make out the name.

What concerned him the most was the overabundance of pizza sauce spilled onto the clothing.

Wait.

Mike threw himself away from that stage faster than the motion registered with him, a yell tearing from the back of his throat with so much force, he could hardly believe it was him. 

He knew by the sound of shitty eighties pop floating into his ear that Gray must be near is side, and the shuffle of feet meant that another employee was there, too. No matter how many times the man snapped his finger, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from that damn box.

He scrambled off the floor, faintly aware he was being dragged away by his arm. His eye twitched, but they were far away, unseeing.

Someone sat him down on the work table.

“Go grab the first aid kit from behind the front counter.”

“Silver box, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, got it.”

A door slammed next to his ear, and Mike’s eyes snapped towards the employee who dragged him into the breakroom.

Skeeter stood concerned in front of him, although he noted that slight glint of panic behind his gaze. The box was tucked under his arm, resting on his hip. He kept his distance.

All at once, Mike felt disgust rising into his voice. “The fuck was that?”

“What was what?”

“Don’t play that shit with me now, Skeeter,” he snarled, jabbing a finger accusingly in his direction. “What the hell did I just see in that box? Why did you _hide_ it? Why the hell was there b-”

The older man held up a hand, effectively cutting him off. “Look, Michael,” he started carefully, hands floating near his waist. Mike sneered at the mention of his full name. The man knows he hates that. “I’m not…trying to hide anything from you. You, specifically.”

He rubbed his hands over his face, mouth moving in a way that signaled that he was talking to himself. “We all know what goes down here, but not _everyone_ does. There’s a lot of employees here who are kept in the dark for these types of things. I’m not doing it to… _hurt_...you, I’m doing it to save face for the company. Do you know the type of scene that would go down if someone spotted this and they _weren’t_ in the know?”

He averted his eyes from the night guard, although his gaze was off. “I’m not trying to hide anything. I’m only trying to hide things for the sake of the business. Got it?”

Mike peaked through his bangs, shaking his head with a clipped sigh. “Yeah, got it. Fucked, but I got it.”

He didn’t dignify that with a reply. A palpable uncomfortableness settled over the room.

Mike could see Skeeter giving him that strange look again. He lifted his eyebrow, but didn’t say a word. The man faked a cough.

“Does that, uh, hurt?” Skeeter nodded towards his arm.

Mike, unaware what he was talking about, looked down, eyes going small when he saw a deep gash running down his forearm. 

It seemed like only then did it starting burning, as if acknowledging its existence made the pain real. 

Mike winced, sucking air in through his teeth. “Yeah. I'll be fine.”

“Okay.” A pause. “I’ll go give this-” He lifted the box. “-to Scott. You...stay here until Gray gets back. I’ll ask if you can leave early to get that checked out.”

Mike couldn’t help his outward display of surprise. “Uh, thanks. I think it’ll be okay, though.”

“Rather you be on the safe side. We don’t want a repeat of last time.”

“Last time?”

“Yeah.”

Huh. Gray was telling the truth. But then again, this was Fazbear's they were talking about. Why should he be surprised? 

* * *

Mike was permitted to leave early that day, even if Mange told him that he’s not allowed to sue should he lose his arm or some shit. He said he didn’t want him on the floor until he had a tetanus shot. But hey, at least he got to get out of sorting boxes all day.

As he packed his things to leave (sweet, early freedom), his mind couldn’t help but wander back to what he saw today.

While he really had been hoping that what he saw was the result of a culinary disaster, Mike knew that by Skeeter’s reaction and the stench of old blood that hit him, he was sorely mistaken.

He had the sudden urge to wash his hands twenty times over. He slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. Maybe he would take that bleach bath he joked about. 

He made a quick detour to the restroom and set the sink to the highest setting of hot water it could muster (which was, unfortunately, just barely above lukewarm). While trying to remove bits of cheap paper towel fibers, Mike looked towards the cracked bathroom mirror.

In his eyes, he saw his own uniform shirt slowly bleeding a red discoloration, spreading until nearly the entire front had been ruined.

He grabbed at his abdomen, a sick feeling rising into his throat before realizing that there was nothing there.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Fuck. I need another job.”


End file.
